


O Joli, Joli!

by bai_marionette



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All Magic Comes With a Price, Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Cannibalism, Dark Magic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Relationship, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Descriptions of Drug Usage, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), M/M, Macabre Artist Alastor, Open Relationships, Self-Cannibalism, Trans Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Vague Early Twentieth Century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bai_marionette/pseuds/bai_marionette
Summary: I still like you the most / You'll always be my favorite ghostTo achieve immortality, you must sacrifice a thousand souls and then one special item held dear. Alastor will learn the true weight of his mother’s legacy.
Relationships: Alastor & Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	O Joli, Joli!

**Author's Note:**

> i didnt need to upload new stuff but this au has been itching me for months. here's the dorian grey au that absolutely no one asked for.

Alastor was a young man, had just turned twenty-three, and felt himself to be a very respectable young man with an aspiring career at the radio business. He was young and still in the prime of his life to chase after his dreams, he felt himself making great progress. His youth and charm exuded over into his radio personality, qualities that he felt brought even more great pride to the infamous LeBlanc family name. He was a proud, young man. He was a brilliant, young man. He was a sensible, young man.

He was absolutely terrified of his own mortality.

Alastor dreaded the day that his skin would begin to sag and strain against his bones, to wrinkle and gray, to visibly writhe and wither as he could only look upon his reflection and watch in approaching horror of his own mortal demise. Dreams of his mortality haunted his nightmares, lingered in his day-to-day activities. He would be startled awake by horrid dreams of looking upon his reflection in a mirror but in the form of a rotting corpse, mouth agape in abject immortal torment and eye sockets long forsaken to the maggots. His once beautiful skin would be marred with the imperfections of death, cursed beyond forever, and everything that he had taken so much care to preserve – unwritten just as soon as his last breath left his body.

Every day Alastor found himself in his morning routine with his mind on the verge of an inner struggle and breakdown as he saw the faintest impressions at the corners of his eyes, in the lines between his mouth and nose, in how his chin almost seemed to sag. No. Alastor was just working himself too hard and needed more rest. But no, he had already taking more sleep and he had restructured his schedule some three times this month and everything. But no, even now, he was still seeing the faintest traces of aging. His characteristic grin was causing lines in his face and he felt the panic start to creep in, smile twitching, eyes starting to well with angry tears-

“Hey Smiles, ya doin’ okay?”

Alastor snapped out of his moment, coming back to his senses, as he felt the shaving cream still lingering on his face, the shaving razor blade handle still tight in his grip. He relaxed his grip and watched his knuckles darken as the blood flow returned to normal, he let the razor slide safely into the sink as he shook out the leftover tingling in his hands. He took the wash rag from the sink, finding it was still damp, and wiped the cream from his face completely. He did not trust himself to shave properly and potentially mar his perfect skin. He would shave in the morning, in the easy light of the new day, rejuvenated by fresh sleep in a warm bed.

Alastor opened the bathroom door, blinking in the faint lamp light, as he took in the sight before him. There was Angel in his bed, his darling Angel, looking concerned. He had the faintest starts of bruises around his neck in the form of Alastor’s teeth. He looked like he had been waiting for a while, having gotten his robe from off his usual chair, and sitting upright. He was such a beautiful picture, such an incredible specimen of breeding and personal aesthetic. His unique case of heterochromia, hazel and blue, a brown so lovely as caramel, and a blue to rival a beautiful summer sky; skin so lovely and still freckled like a youth. His hair was dark in his roots but a bright blonde everywhere else, a secret that he refused to share with Alastor, calling it a trade secret. Angel was also almost abnormally tall, whilst still graceful and seductive, claiming genetics from a distant African relative whom Alastor also assumed the man got his complexion from. Angel was peculiar. He attracted the attention of everyone in a room, whether he seemed to realize it or not.

Alastor had been smitten almost immediately and sought out the former acting star. Angel had fallen in some dark and rough crowd, been “needlin’ and posin’ for an itch and a scratch” for some number of years but Alastor still saw him as a bright star. Constantly reminded the pretty blonde that Alastor could help him return to the pretty black and white films with his pretty done face on every movie posterboard. Angel thought it was cute, had said so several times, and Alastor wondered when Angel would return to the camera like he always said he would.

Alastor wondered about Angel’s youth as well, the other was older than him, or so he claimed, but had yet to despair upon his own features much in any way that Alastor always did. Angel’s window to return to film was contingent upon him remaining young and beautiful, for as long as he was beautiful, he would have a beautiful career. But if he did not act now, he would age and rot just like the rest with nothing to leave behind his legacy other than his feather boas, expensive silk dresses and a budding career so hastily left behind.

Alastor opened the bedsheets and crawled back under, reassuring his lover as he reached over to take the blonde into his arms, entertaining himself by playing with Angel’s hair. The blonde took a while to calm down, Alastor almost able to hear his thoughts as they whirred a mile a minute before he eventually relaxed in the other’s arms and finally went to sleep. Alastor thought upon his mortality several times that night.

Alastor found himself restless, licking over his lips, both taking relief in and inwardly worrying over the fact that he was still the image of the young man that he desperately tried to hang onto, as he felt the bare skin of his lover on his chest. Their heart beats never matched, Alastor’s own heart pacing ahead of Angel as the young man continued to dread upon his own fate. He had to do something, there had to be something he could do to prevent or defy aging- No. He needed to defy death, to remain young, he had to avoid death’s clutches and in doing so, he would never age. He would always remain in his prime, forever young, and ripe muscle, strong and capable voice, bright and commanding personality. Not a single moment should age his appearance any past the year he was now. He would see to it.

Alastor knew what he had to do, he realized, as he finally closed his eyes, tightening his grip on Angel. He would preserve his youth, he had no choice, and made a mental note to check amongst his mother’s old tomes when Angel left the estate. He could not do this around his lover lest he be stopped. He could not risk being stopped. He could not risk growing older.

Alastor must remain young, he must become immortal.

:::

Angel gave Alastor a kiss goodbye a few mornings later. He was merry and babbling about a new set of dresses that he had ordered custom and was to be expecting that day. Alastor did the polite thing and smiled, nodded when appropriate, and even laughed at times. His lovely Angel was none the wiser, and Alastor almost felt a pang of pity for the poor man as he spun on a heel to press two fast kisses to Alastor’s cheeks in parting. Angel waved from his carriage, a new driver that Alastor did not recognize and felt not to ask, as he waved a handkerchief in a mock farewell. The French he tried to use in goodbye was accented, much like his own English was, and Alastor found the slight mispronunciation both endearing and awful to hear.

As the car turned the last corner of the bend to the main access roads back into town, Alastor felt his grin widen more as he walked back up the steps to his manor, giddy. He was a man of his word, both to himself and to others, enthused about the prospects waiting within his mother’s old journals. He had excused himself to his study, advised all his servants to attend to their duties and pay him little mind if he missed his dinner that night. They had all accepted their orders with no argument, his habit of missing or excusing himself from meals in the favor of taking to reading in his study common.

So, with little haste, Alastor locked himself in the expansive rooms and took to the first old tome that he knew had belonged to his mother. Her code had been difficult to decipher at first, having hidden her magic in plain sight of his Christian father in the form of gardening tips and cooking recipes. Alastor knew she had to have something to the effect of his goals. He checked upon his pocket watch, spied it at half past noon, the sun still high in the sky. He looked upon his mother’s portrait just a few steps from his desk.

Always an elegant woman, Alastor remembered how often people had complimented upon her appearance and character. In her portrait, she wore her favorite dark green dress, a white ruffled neckline outlining her collarbones perfectly. Her features were much like his own, eyes just as cunning and devious, mouth slightly quirked in a smile. Her brown hair was braided back but long curly wave framed the sides of her face and he spied the thick ribbon covering her neck. He felt his fingers touch the ribbon mirroring hers upon his neck. He had always worn it, had never occurred a memory without its presence upon his jugular. His mother had said it was very important he worn it as it would protect him should he ever be caught unprotected. His thoughts almost strayed to her mysterious illness and almost subsequent disappearance while he had been still too young to understand the full perspective of what was going on. He kicked aside those thoughts in favor of other things.

Alastor grinned as he turned back to his desk, seating and readying himself for a long afternoon, as he cracked open the first tome to his left. It claimed itself to be a set of gardening tips in a makeshift journal with repeated bookmarks and dog-eared pages, and with his mother’s gaze upon him, he set to work. He felt emotions bubbling in his chest as he thought to his future immortality.

::

Alastor threw the final book at the wall, knocking down his target – his mother’s portrait. He had his dagger in hand as he screamed out in fury and savagely cut into the portrait. Anguished tears poured down his face, but he was too furious to pay them any mind. The moonlight barely hid his actions from his own eyes. He held the dagger above his mother’s face, of her deceitful eyes and mirthful grin, as he heaved for breath suddenly and felt as though the wind had been knocked free of his lungs.

Alastor knew the fire was still well and going, the room should still have been warm, but he felt so cold above that portrait. His mother’s own brown eyes looking straight through him as a shiver ran down his spine. The ribbon on his neck felt so tight and he felt his family’s grandfather ring feel so heavy upon his finger. His lungs begun to feel tight as time seemed to stand ever so still, his blood seemingly stopped dead in its tracks mid-passage in his veins, his head beginning to feel light and his mind faint. He thought he spotted a dangerous shadow begin to creep over his form as he felt – more than heard – his mother’s voice in his ears, voice sickly sweet but tone icy and dangerously past a warning tone, voicing once more the translation for human immortality:

> _With a single portrait or canvas, blank and fresh  
>  _ _One thousand drops of sacrificial blood  
>  _ _With subsequent secession for thirty days,  
>  _ _Paint thy image upon blank canvas  
>  _ _Lay curse to bear the wounds and ills of thy deeds  
>  _ _Until their screams become synonymous with thy own._

Alastor looked at his mother’s portrait again, in this newfound light, and with a hand weighted down with such great unseeable force, scratched the surface of his mother’s portrait. He thought he saw her eyes flash with something, he thought he almost saw human living fear, but then the portrait suddenly became grotesque and he felt his nose overcome with the stench of rot. He felt the chorus of screams in his head, eyes widening back in horror, as he saw his mother’s last final moments – agony, outrage, mouth agape mid-scream, eyes wild and terrified as she looked upon something that only she could see. Her once beautiful dark green dress now a dirtied and sweat-dampened nightshirt. Her eyes had dark circles underneath them, her lips cracked and split, her cheeks almost hollow as if she had been starved. Her neck was visible and bare, naked without her ribbon, and Alastor found himself more terrified of this detail than the various bruises and nicks upon her skin as his mother looked trapped in some unforeseen agony.

As Alastor attempted to lift the dagger from the portrait, he could almost feel the unspoken message here: his mother’s youth, her beauty, her sudden illness and disappearance – there had been a toll she had paid, a grave one. He tried to think of how she could have done it, how she would have managed to find enough bodies to come up with in the time of a single month to achieve her short-lived immortality. He tried to think back to his childhood, for any missing servants or nannies, but he found himself coming up with no answers – and then he realized back to a crucial detail as he looked down upon his mother’s portrait one more time. He thought back to her caring nature, of her open arms and open-door policy…he thought of the hotels and the coal mining business she had inherited from her well-to-do husband and father, respectively. He thought of the newspaper headlines he had once spied in the windows of shops.

> **AWFUL HOTEL FIRE**  
>  **MINE COLLAPSE – NO SURVIVORS**  
>  **MINE EXPLOSION – SURROUNDING AREA BURNING FOR THREE DAYS**  
>  **MISSING MINERS AFTER TUNNEL MAP IMPROPERLY DETAILED**

Alastor looked upon his mother’s portrait, of her agonized face, with new eyes. He tried to think of those screams, commit them to memory. He tried to ask himself if he could also endure those screams, endure those voices, tormenting him for all his immortality. He let out a broken laugh as he thought back to just that morning, to his own nightmares, to the ever-growing fear of his fragile mortality.

“Horrors beseech thee, mother,” he said as he pulled the dagger tip from the portrait - and immediately found himself back at his desk, head picking up from various paper notes and scribbles, the fire out but the room still vaguely warm. The portrait of his mother was still in place and looking elegant upon the wall. Her eyes seemed more knowing now, observant and calculating in the very way he drew a period at the end of his sentences. He put down his pen and walked over to her visage. “Horrors beseech thee, mother,” he repeated, and after a moment. “And to I, they shall fall upon too. May you forgive your only son for committing the very same sin as you.”

In the breaking light of dawn, as Alastor made to gather up his notes and head off to his bedroom as he thought upon how he shall make his first victims. It was only after a faint itch in the back of his neck, as if a breeze had tried to tickle him by going underneath the ribbon befitting his neck. He looked up, expecting to see the large window behind him having been cracked open or some source for the draft, but his eyes felt compelled to look upon his mother’s portrait and he thought he spied his mother’s portrait gaze much darker beneath her painted smile.

Alastor made better haste to leave the study immediately and avoid his mother’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> please join this [ rlly cool server ](https://discord.gg/h8mJ75p) and chat me there // also if you get the reference in the title, then the next chapter will be rlly great for u
> 
> p.s. heads up, this fic does get SUPER graphic and explicit in the next few chapters, if you are squeamish about corpse descriptions or graphic descriptions of characters dying in violent positions, i highly advise you to take caution. i will give as many cw[s] as i can, and try to edit in such a way to allow peeps to bypass the descriptions if they so choose.


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